


The Dissolving Girl

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [40]
Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, Family Drama, Fights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-14 23:51:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7196531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rukia openly defies her brother.  Byakuya and Zaraki engage in a skirmish.  Rukia and Renji receive startling news.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dissolving Girl

Morning rays, young and pale, stream into the room, setting it aflame. She sits, poised and unflinching. Her hands ball in her lap, and she stares, stone-faced, into the middle distance. Duty keeps her head high, her back straight, and her chest up. Her eyes dim, untouched by the glowing luminance. She is the portrait of a lady.

The bloodline that stretches across the room, forever linking them as siblings, however, is feeling pretty tangled from where Rukia sits. Sometimes, it is hard to believe they are kin for their spirits are surely not kindred.

Sister is so obsequious, so honor-bound, so prim, so proper, so delicate. Rukia feels none of those things. Every time the threads of Kuchiki honor and duty begin to snake around Rukia and threaten to coil, she resists, bucking against the pressure. She hasn't learned how to submit.

Like right now.

The situation calls for submission, but she cannot relent. It's not in her nature. Instead, her jaws lock, and her lips press together so hard she can taste the tin of blood. She chokes on her personal pride. It is her pride as a cur of Inuzuri, the untamed _thing_ that entered the pristine halls of Kuchiki. For once, the death grip of her own pride saves her; otherwise, she would be too afraid that, if her lips had their way, all of her disobedient thoughts would escape, exposing her and shaming Sister.

She has not mastered the Kuchiki above-it-all stare, which is colder than ice, impenetrable, fierce, and shines with the brilliance of a thousand diamonds catching fire. Brother and Sister could _murder_ everyone in the room with a well-timed _glance_.

All Rukia has is a frown and a few uncharitable thoughts as she fights against the tendrils of submission that Brother's will is currently throwing her way.

"Do you understand, _Rukia_?" his voice is equal parts icy and unyielding, but there is a fray to its normally dispassionate cadence.

Rukia senses the trouble lurking past his facade instinctively, and her gaze betrays her inner confusion as it flicks up to meet his.

Somehow, someway, she has stumbled upon one of Brother's exposed nerves.

Indeed, it is a rare day that Brother shows his hand, but she can sense that this decision, which he is imposing upon her, is not one forged from rigid logic. No, there is something else lying in his depths, something more akin to _fear_ than _acuity_.

Rukia shakes her head and squeezes her eyes close, banishing the thought.

 _There is nothing for Brother to fear. He is strong. He is powerful. He is steadfast and stalwart,_ she thinks to herself as if she is repeating a mantra. If she says it enough, then surely it _must_ be true. Repetition is key.

To think otherwise would be tantamount to heresy, or _worse_.

" _Rukia_?" Brother repeats her name as if she may not have heard his command the first time.

But, she hears him loud and clear. More importantly, she feels him. The tension in the air feels electric. The hiss of sparks unseen prickle at her skin. Yet, her respect and awe, while potent, are not unflappable. She is a headstrong woman at her core. There is iron in her, and it steels her gaze.

For a brief moment, her eyes dart to Sister, who sits as the picture of wifely virtue. And, again, Rukia is blinded by their differences.

Today, their differences continue to grow.

Hisana, the proper Lady with the million-mile stare.

Rukia, the willful shrew of a girl, forever searching for something that resembles herself. However, there is nothing in that room that looks remotely like her.

Rukia inhales a deep breath, and the words bubble forth, "No," her voice could cut through bone. It only takes a second for the temperature to plummet and for the barometer to rise.

Rukia braces against the sudden shift, which hits her viscerally, like a contained explosion. Her muscles go rigid. Her breath catches in her throat, and she closes her eyes, either in submission or because she wants to be spared the figurative carnage that will surely heat Brother's glare.

"I cannot," she manages in a broken breath, crystalizing her defiance, just in case Brother was in doubt that her "No" was more of the "Please, no" variety rather than the "Hell, no" variety.

As realization washes over the room, Rukia sees Sister's shadow flicker across the tatami. It is a brief, almost imperceptible flutter of darkness, but, in the stillness of the room, it is easily detected.

Sister's inky disapprobation holds Rukia's attention a moment too long. Her eyes pin the edges of her sister's shadow, now still. Rukia tries her best to read the contours, the color. But, there is nothing to see.

In the aftermath of her insubordination, Rukia has enough willpower to keep her gaze low. In her youth, she would have followed the flight of shadows to its possessor, staring pleadingly at Sister. Now, however, she fixes the delicate weaving of the tatami and does not flinch. She only has her imagination to fill in the holes of why Sister stirred.

Rukia's gut tells her that Sister has probably turned to Brother. There is an emotion trapped in Sister's gaze. Rukia can almost _feel_ it leaking into Sister's reiatsu. The only missing piece—the piece of which Rukia is unsure—is whether Sister is silently advocating for _pity_ or _mercy_ on Rukia's behalf.

At this thought, Rukia's features harden. She doesn't need Sister to plead her case. Not anymore. She is the vice captain of the Sixth, after all. Brother selected her for the post knowing everything he needed to know about her and her inability to submit to that which she opposes. "If you refuse my service, then I will transfer divisions," the words come tumbling out of Rukia's mouth like the verbal equivalent of vomit—unbidden and effusive.

Reflexively, Rukia's hands cup her mouth, and her eyes squeeze shut.

 _Stop, stop, stop_ , her thoughts chant inside her head, hoping that she can keep the deluge of obstinate thoughts at bay.

Brother braces against the impact of her words. Apparently, he did _not expect that repost_.

A devious and slightly reckless part of her wonders if _anyone_ has _ever_ dared to defy the clan head's orders so openly. Probably not. Wasn't Kuchiki defiance better suited to the secrecy of shadows? Isn't that what Rukia's handmaiden warned her?

_Mind the shadows, milady._

"Do not be foolish, Rukia," he responds, voice low and dark, like a storm cloud brewing and full of static.

Rukia lifts her head, prepared for Brother's proverbial lightning strike. "Is that all?" she removes the edge from her voice well enough, but there is an iciness in her demeanor that proves particularly cutting.

Brother, however, is definitely her better when it comes to the stare-down. He could strip flesh with that look of his. _Just how long has he practiced it?_ she wonders mordantly. Then, feeling immediately pinned and subdued under the burn of his gaze, she flinches. A mixture of awe and horror fills her as her concentration scatters across the floor, searching for a safe place to land.

"You are dismissed," he states, voice clear and piercing.

Rukia lifts her head, but keeps her eyes glued to the floor. His dismissal feels like a slash to the gut. He might as well have unleashed Senbonzakura on her. The resulting physical damage probably would heal quicker.

"Yes, Brother."

And, at the very last possible moment, she locates the submissive Lady that exists somewhere deep inside her. Just in time for her graceful exit.

Seconds, long and stretching thin across the length of the room, hang in the silent interim after Rukia leaves.

Byakuya can _feel_ his wife's wordless judgment pricking at the back of his neck, and he resists the urge to rub the gooseflesh rolling down his spine.

It's just his imagination.

Until it's not.

"I know," Byakuya murmurs, unable to take the uneasy quiet that quickly blossoms between them. He breathes a small sigh of defeat, ears buzzing as he waits for the inevitable chorus of "I told you so."

His wife, ever charitable, spares him the obvious. Instead, she wraps her silence around her like a warm shawl.

He prefers "I told you so" to Hisana's _Meaningful Silence_. Meaningful Silence is deafening. It needles him and wrestles with his better judgement.

It gives him just enough rope to hang himself, which is exactly what he does. His doubt proves to be an effective noose.

Hoping for redemption, but knowing better, Byakuya's gaze follows his wife's inky shadow until he meets her violet eyes. He stares, strangling on his uncertainty. Her empathetic stare does little to quell the violent surge of worry that assails him.

He would never expose his uncertainty to _anyone_ else. But, Hisana already knows. In fact, as he searches her, he does not find a trace of surprise pulling at the lines of her visage.

Hisana merely closes her eyes for a beat, and, when she opens them, her features soften. "Fear." The word on her lips is spoken at a whisper, but it is provocative in its singularity.

There is a thought there—incomplete, perhaps even broken—and he leans in with baited breath waiting for the rest.

She obliges him, realizing her error. A tortured smile thins her lips. She means it to be comforting, but, given the circumstances, it seems better suited for a funeral, not for counsel. "—it torments," she states with eyes diverted to the floor and with head hung, as if her words are too heavy to speak without great effort.

His mouth goes dry, and his mind races, stumbling over her words. Hisana rarely plays the role of the cipher so he must have made some grave miscalculation with Rukia to reduce his wife to speaking in riddles.

Hisana, ever astute, swiftly reads the confusion clouding his face. "Milord," her voice lifts, and she places a conciliatory hand against his, "she is your Second."

Byakuya can tell that his wife is trying to overcome her own personal struggles with what her statement implicitly requires of him: He needs to confer to Rukia the respect that her position requires of him.

Hisana closes her eyes, and, once she has found her repose, she continues, deciding on a different tact, "If instead of a sister I had a brother, would you have made the same demand of him that you have made of Rukia?"

He straightens at the thought. _No_ , his gut tells him. But, _maybe_ , he thinks to himself upon further consideration.

 _Probably not_.

Sure. His stomach twists at the thought of failing to protect any of his men. He knows them, better than they might believe. He knows their names, their families, their backgrounds, their hobbies, and their lineages. He invests just as much time in knowing his soldiers as he does in any other aspect of maintaining the Sixth. Perhaps he isn't as _warm_ or as _inviting_ as some of the other captains, but that doesn't mean he thinks little of the men that serve under him. Quite the contrary. He shoulders a great responsibility, and every loss wounds him, more than he lets on to the outside.

But, if Rukia was his brother, rather than his sister, he might be less paternalistic. It's not that he doesn't believe in his sister. He does. He respects her abilities, and he wants to see her flourish.

But….

He sighs, unable to reconcile the contradiction in his mind.

"She chose the ranks." Hisana breaks the tension building inside his head with a thoughtful glance. "She knows what that means. She knows the risks. She has experienced tragedy and loss, and, despite this, she makes the decision to don the uniform of the Gotei 13 and the Sixth's badge every single day." As Hisana continues, he can detect a hollow tin threading through his wife's words.

She is trying to convince herself, and she is far more successful in this endeavor than he is.

His instinct is to clench tighter to the ones he loves when he senses danger. A death grip on Rukia, however, will likely force her to confront peril headfirst, and he will forfeit any illusion of control. He must exercise greater self-control. Plans contrived in fear often lead to poor outcomes, he reminds himself grimly.

"She'll forgive you," Hisana observes, as if she is drawing on her own _personal_ experience.

He breaks their shared gaze, tucks his chin toward his neck, and shuts his eyes. Hisana is right. Shielding Rukia will either drive her away or stunt her potential, and Rukia has every right to fight for the distinction that she has earned. In truth, he would think less of her if she passively bowed her head and let his fear stifle her professional and personal development.

"I know," his voice grows soft, almost inaudible.

"Come." Hisana elegantly extends her arm, offering her hand.

Without hesitation, Byakuya takes her hand in his, hungrily relishing the heat of her skin against the chill of his palm.

"If it would not inconvenience you too greatly, would my dear husband mind escorting me to the garden?"

Wordlessly, he obliges her request. And, though he does not say it, he thinks to himself that he would gladly escort his wife to hell and back if that meant he could share her company for a moment longer.

* * *

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Renji lifts his hands up, palm-side facing Rukia. Defensively, he draws his shoulders up to his ears, brow furrowing as he stares down at her. "Hold up, Grumpy Pants," he teases back, hoping to break her dark mood, "you want to do _what?_ " He pours on the charm at the end, but she's having _none_ of it.

Rukia is determined to be pissed off. Electricity crackles in her gaze, threatening to manifest and zap him if he isn't extra careful. "I'm serious, Renji!" she growls, venom pooling in her voice.

He has no doubt that she's serious. Dead serious. She's got blood in her eye, and, if the throbbing vein in her forehead is any indication, she's about a second away from _exploding_ all over the Thirteenth's freshly burnished floor.

And, Renji can't have _that_. An exploding princess sounds like it would result in _a lot of paperwork_ , and Renji is currently eyeballs-deep in the stuff as it is already.

"I get it. I get it," he says, hoping that the steadiness of his cadence will appease her. Predictably, it doesn't. As his words recede into the silence of the room, her forehead vein is still pulsating, and, to top it off, she's now throwing daggers with her eyes.

So, he tries a different refrain, a logical refrain, "It will take time, though, Rukia. There's paperwork, references, background checks, and your captain and my captain would have to agree." His words are quick, clinical, a tact that Rukia apparently finds soothing.

Her shoulders, once open and broad (well, broad for her), slope, and her lips release from the sharp, thin line they once assumed. Even the lines around her eyes soften as she exhales a deep breath. "Errrr," she grumbles under her breath and rolls her eyes close.

"Errrr" is the closest Renji's ever gotten to a "You're right" from Rukia. At this point, he'll take what he can get.

"I know you don't want to hear it," he begins, but she cuts him off with a pointed stare.

"Then, _don't_ ," she warns him in a clipped breath.

He doesn't listen. Listening is something they beat out of you at the Eleventh. "Your Brother is doing his job."

"No, he isn't," Rukia belts out before Renji can finish. "His job is to run his division, and part of that job is to ensure the vice captain is prepared and fully integrated. I'm not some liability."

Renji can't help the nervous chuckle that comes flying out of his mouth. "Rukia!" he says, mid-guffaw, "he's the some-number-or-another head of the Kuchiki clan, charged with protecting those who carry the Kuchiki name. In that capacity, you _are_ a liability! Especially, now."

"He's a captain first."

"I don't think he sees it that way."

As much as Renji knows Rukia doesn't _want_ to hear it, she needs to. She isn't like the rest of them. The dynamic between her and her captain goes deeper than even the rich interplay between non-familial captains and vice captains.

Captain Kuchiki has a _duty_ to protect her, to keep her safe, to provide for her. Perhaps, in the beginning, Captain Kuchiki thought it was prudent to select Rukia as his second-in-command as it would keep her forever pinned under his watchful eye. But, now? With war becoming an inevitability, the flaw in the captain's reasoning is coming into stark focus.

Renji doesn't blame him. If anything, Renji finds it slightly humanizing. Everyone fears the prospect of losing those closest to them, even captains.

Even Byakuya Kuchiki.

"Not everyone values their role in the Gotei 13 above all else," Renji adds once the silences that settles over them grows toxic, threatening to poison the air they breathe.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Rukia snaps back, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. She can be so damn stubborn and willful.

Renji, however, takes it in stride.

He rolls his shoulders back, releasing the tension burning in his traps, as he turns toward his desk. "What it sounds like, Rukia," he sighs, not even bothering to smooth the edge from his voice. "The ranks are what they are. Not everyone is willing to sacrifice it all in its name."

He turns before her inevitable scowl, but he feels the pinpricks that her gaze always elicits in him rolling across his neck as he takes a seat at his desk.

She doesn't understand. To her, the Gotei 13 is her everything. She would give her all to it with reckless abandon.

Renji? Not so much.

Would he die for the cause? Absolutely. But, his absolutely came with conditions. A whole host of conditions. There are things he just plain and simple wouldn't do for the cause.

Would he kill Rukia for the cause? No.

Would he spare the honor of those that serve under him for the cause? No.

Does serving the Gotei 13 necessitate the stripping away of all Renji values in himself and in his friends? Absolutely not. Not for him, at least. For others? Perhaps.

Until right then, Renji naturally assumed Byakuya Kuchiki would be among those who would put his rank Above All Else.

How intensely odd to be proven wrong, Renji thinks to himself, and, for a flash, he feels a strange sense of comradery bubble up inside his chest at the thought that maybe he and Byakuya Kuchiki are not so different.

Renji locks eyes with Rukia. She's still struggling to piece together his unusually veiled meaning. She understands him just fine, he thinks to himself with a small huff. It's just _inconvenient_ for her to acknowledge her brother's dilemma. Maybe she is still clinging to the childish notion that Captain Kuchiki is infallible.

Renji exhales a long breath. _Of course she does_.

The admiration she holds toward her brother is slightly needling. _Jarring_ , really, if Renji is being perfectly honest with himself. However, as much as Renji would _love_ to knock Byakuya Kuchiki off the pedestal that Rukia has erected in her head, Renji doesn't want to be there to see the day when reality disabuses her of the belief that her brother is unfailing because, while Renji would give his right arm to be the soul that soundly and effortlessly sends Captain Kuchiki sputtering to his knees in gory defeat, Renji is no fool. His fantasies of greatness are a long time coming. More likely, when Byakuya falters, it will be during a veritable shit-storm with more captains than just Kuchiki succumbing to defeat.

"Brother isn't that sentimental," Rukia's words are quick and sharp, cutting the silence like steel through silk.

"His actions suggest otherwise," Renji concludes candidly as he leans into the back of his chair and occupies his hands with the knot securing his hair in a hastily fashioned ponytail.

Rukia's lips pull into a tight, straight line. It's the look of knowing defeat. She won't admit defeat, though. Not to Renji. Her expression is admission enough. "Maybe it's Sister," Rukia mutters half-heartedly under her breath.

She doesn't believe the thought any more than he does, and she punctuates her own suspicion with a small roll of her eyes.

He has to give it to her. She's a fighter. When they were young, Rukia would fight the obvious as a matter of principle. They had to be right then, though. One wrong move and they would have perished on those harsh streets. Her penchant for playing devil's advocate saved them more times than the members of their ragtag gang would have cared to admit.

But, now?

She's fighting herself. Renji doesn't have a dog in this fight. No one does. No one but Rukia. That's the problem.

Scary thing though, if Captain Kuchiki wanted to lock her away in some tower, no one would oppose him. She's _his_ Sister, after all, a mere trinket in the Kuchiki treasure chest. As Clan head, he can do whatever the fuck he pleases with his pretty little trinkets.

Now, Captain Kuchiki _won't_ lock Rukia away in a tower because he's not _mad_ , but it goes to the point that if he wants her out of the picture during the war, no other captain is coming to her rescue. It would be scandalous to interfere in a family's private affairs, especially a _noble_ family, _especially_ one of the Four. She'll either do as he bids or defy his orders without anyone else's help or pity.

"It's not Hisana," Renji murmurs, taking some small amusement at Rukia's inner struggle, like watching a cat caught in a fight with a curtain.

Rukia's brows pull together, and the lines in her visage tighten. She knows. Even worse, she _agrees_ with his assessment, but she's got her back against the figurative wall, and there's nothing that will work in her bag of tricks.

"What do I do?" The words come slow, like syrup, out of her mouth; it's almost as if she isn't sure what she's _saying_ or _doing_ when the question finally forms and dangles there suspended in mid-air. Her expression transforms from tense agitation to confusion as she stares at Renji, silently pleading for him to help her.

"Well," Renji begins, sinking deeper into the back of his chair. His gaze goes skating across the beams of the ceiling as his mind attempts to do some quick calculations. "Do you have your Zanpakutō?" With a quirk of a brow and devilish lopsided grin, he captures Rukia's gaze, and she beams back at him, fully understanding his question.

_"_ _Hell, yeah!"_

* * *

Heavy, long, black lashes almost obscure Byakuya's vision as he tries his _damnedest_ to ignore the black cloud _hovering_ over him.

"Repeat," he directs his squad, voice crisp and cool.

Nope. He's paying that hideous blackness no mind. That breathing, lumbering void that just _stares_ at him menacingly.

 _It is too early_ , Byakuya thinks to himself, wanting desperately to release the pressure building behind his eyes in dismay. What should have been a _simple_ , _inconsequential_ rotation has pulled the attention of one Kenpachi.

One _looming_ Kenpachi.

"Repetition is key," Byakuya murmurs, wondering if the sound of his voice can pierce the darkness of the giant's shadow that blankets him.

It does not.

"What if our squads train _together_ ," the bloodthirsty shadow asks.

Byakuya does not raise his gaze, but he can almost _hear_ the whiteness of the Captain of the Eleventh's fangs as he bares them, like some sort of feral animal. He can almost _see_ the sharp points of Kenpachi's canines, a mental image that he cannot easily shake.

"Inadvisable," Byakuya replies, stripping his voice of any trace of emotion, like _disgust_ or _abhorrence_ , emotions that he feels rather potently as they hammer his stomach like the waves of an angry sea.

"Too scared?" Kenpachi taunts, the bells in his hair tinkling with every move he makes, no matter how slight.

Byakuya cannot help the frown that turns the corners of his lips down nor can he help the heavy breath that bursts forth in response. "No," he states flatly, voice bladed.

"Probably too scared," the Kenpachi concludes, _smugly_.

 _The beast is likely snarling, now_ , Byakuya imagines to himself, refusing to avert his gaze from his men's battle formation. Although, to be fair, Byakuya does not need to confirm his suspicion. His acquaintance with the current Kenpachi has been long enough for him to know that the Kenpachi's ballads are the slow, painful cries that follow the breaking of bone and that his sport is one that promises the spilling of copious amounts of blood.

_Such a brute._

"Wouldn't want to break your _tiara_ ," Kenpachi chides him.

Byakuya refuses to dignify _that comment_ with any retort whatsoever. Instead, he stares, distantly, into the field of new recruits, all fresh-faced youths direct from the Academy.

They are terrible. Easy fodder. The lot of them. Byakuya has no doubt that if war broke right then, the entire squad of first-years would not make it to the first light of morning. As it currently stood, a brisk wind might prove fatal for some of them.

In only an hour's time, the squad displayed the telltale signs of exhaustion. Half of them could not _hoist_ their swords into something even resembling a proper battle stance. Among the ones who mustered the _inner fortitude_ to _lift_ their Zanpakutō, a quarter of them stumbled every other step, even during the most basic of positions.

Were the new Academy students always this impotent? Has there been some deleterious change made to the Academy's curriculum? Did the professors _forget_ to teach the students basic swordsmanship? Has the Sixth drawn the short straw by being assigned only recruits who skipped the day they taught sword-fighting at the Academy?

In his search for one ray of hope among the entire crop of young faces, Byakuya begins to conduct a cost/benefit analysis of unleashing the bloodthirsty Eleventh on his new men. Maybe a spark of adrenaline is what the newly minted soul reapers need to drive them to their feet?

In his new-found desperation, Byakuya's gaze drifts to the Eleventh's haphazard, spur-of-the moment training area, as he gives more thought to the Kenpachi's offer. A good sidelong glance tells Byakuya all he needs to know: The Eleventh's recruits have turned on one another, many of whom lay in bloodied, bludgeoned heaps, having clearly been bested by their more aggressive squad-mates.

 _Animals_.

Ikkaku sits cross-legged and sips sake, presiding over the _chaos_. It is the vice captain's duty to oversee the new recruits' training, but the child leader the Kenpachi has selected for his division frequently eschews such duties.

"Whoever is left standing is _mine_!" Ikkaku growls, tenor as serious as a dog guarding a fresh bone.

Byakuya turns to his squad, holding a miserable sigh trapped between his lungs. If only he had a moment, he would afford himself a moment of silent mortification; however, the brick shithouse staring a hole in the back of his head prevents him.

Sensing the strike before it lands, Byakuya cleanly steps to the side and watches as the impact of the Kenpachi's blow splits the earth. When the dust settles, a ragged scar of grass, rock, and dirt runs a few meters down the makeshift training ground.

Byakuya secretly welcomes the encounter.

The men of the Sixth and the Eleventh are less secretive about their desires.

"Fight!" the men of the Eleventh cry, and, like wolves, they circle, eyes focusing on the captains, each _willing_ a skirmish between the highborn and their own captain, a man who _fought_ his way from the lowest district to a captainship. Their anticipation fills the air, raucous calls and flashes of spiritual pressure create a palpable buzzing, making the air heavy and sticky.

The men of the Sixth are less overtly _jubilant_ about the prospect of a duel between their captain and the Kenpachi, but they are men of the squads, green ones at that. Battles between captains are _unheard_ of. When they occur, they are purely didactic and rarely open for public consumption.

While Byakuya understands his men's excitement, it does disappoint him. The chorus of whispers that spew forth from his squad's direction makes him question his faith in the Academy. His impending professional depression, however, does not dampen his reflexes, and he easily dodges another of the Kenpachi's attacks.

The Kenpachi has obviously interpreted Byakuya's counter as _consent_ to spar.

It is not.

It's more akin to apathy.

The next attack feels _personal_. The wildness of the Kenpachi's previous strikes, surely indicating a sense of playfulness, vanishes with each ensuing slash of his sword.

Perhaps it is _personal_.

It is hard to read the Eleventh's captain and his aberrant motives. A sword slash to the face could just be the brute's way of saying, "Hello." Byakuya never took the time to acquaint himself with the customs of _peasants_ after all.

"You can keep running, but it ain't gonna save you!" the Kenpachi calls, violence swelling in his voice. To punctuate his meaning, the gargantuan sends a blast of reiatsu hurtling Byakuya's direction.

"Perhaps," Byakuya murmurs calmly, "but this will." With lightning fast movements, he unsheathes his Zanpakutō.

Just before he can unleash an attack of his own, their _interlude_ is brought to an abrupt end, all courtesy of an ill-timed hell butterfly.

The Kenpachi, however, fails to obey certain, _appropriate_ social cues, like ceasing combat when one's opponent is reading _official_ correspondence.

Byakuya quickly blocks the oncoming strike with Senbonzakura, allowing him enough time to _absorb_ the message.

Agitated, Byakuya sends a bolt of blue electricity singing toward the Kenpachi, which proves sufficient to break the monster's bloodlust.

"News?" he growls, clearly frustrated by the turn of events.

"The human girl—" Byakuya does not have the chance to finish the thought before the Kenpachi loses what little interest he rallied.

Byakuya pays his opponent's opinion little mind before bolting in a flash.

* * *

Panting, Rukia lays sprawled across a patch of clover, the potent smell causing her throat to tighten and her chest to squeeze out a hoarse cough.

Lazily, her head rolls back, and Renji comes into view. A sense of pride swells in her chest at the sight of her comrade, laid out and heaving from exhaustion. She did that. All by herself. Years ago, when he had been selected to attend the top class at the Academy, she naturally assumed that she would never rise to his level. It was just the way the cards fell, and they all happened to fall in his favor.

 _Well, ha,_ her inner braggart chirps. _Shows them!_ But, before she can get too ahead of herself, she quickly changes course, remembering that Renji is her trusted friend, _equally_ skilled.

_Equally._

The thought hits her like a brick to the head.

All this time, and she never really considered herself equal to Renji. Or, really, anyone. She has been so busy being the one below. She was below Renji during her short stint at the Academy. She's below Brother and Sister in the Kuchiki family. She is below Captain Ukitake. She was below Vice Captain Shiba and his wife. She is below Brother in Squad Six.

Even when she was "above" Renji, shortly after she assumed the title of a Kuchiki Lady, it wasn't _earned_. Rukia had done nothing to secure her social status. She felt no true connection to her sudden elevation or its many trappings.

But, right then, as she lays across from Renji in a field of clover, she feels like an equal. She has scraped and scrapped for this feeling, for this moment. There was no wily sibling pulling strings backstage to hand her this small gratification. It was all her.

A pleasured grin spreads across her face, prompting Renji to eye her with great skepticism.

"Everything okay over there?" he inquires, nonplussed.

Rukia's head lulls back to center, and she stares into the blue sky. _Everything is just fine_ , she thinks to herself, and, then, she wonders when it last was that she permitted herself to feel _fine_ and not some impending sense of dread or doom.

And, on cue, a hell butterfly flutters down from on high, like a targeted explosion that just happens to land on the tip of her finger. Her heart drops to her feet. Her thoughts become instantly fluid, creating space for the information suddenly flooding into her brain. Then comes the regret, as if her indulgence had somehow summoned the butterfly.

It didn't. But, cold logic has never saved anyone from their delusions.

"What is it?" Renji snaps up into a seated position. His long arms stretch across his bent knees, and he stares at her like a dog begging for crumbs to fall from his master's lips.

She hesitates. "Miss Inoue has made some progress on the orb."

Renji blinks, clearly having problems mentally digesting the news. "Is —," he starts, his brain clearly having a few processing hiccups, "—is that good news?"

Rukia stares at her fingertip, not willing to admit that she, too, feels a sudden distortion in reality as realization detonates in her brain. "Yeah," she says, voice dropping like a lead balloon.

Stunned, Rukia barely notices her companion as he jumps to his feet and grabs her up.

"Huh?" Her head bobs up, and her eyes are on him, trying to read the lines of his face like someone who has spontaneously become illiterate.

"Let's go see!"

Before Rukia can react, Renji takes her hand and yanks her along behind him.


End file.
